


Stuffed, Stitched and Stolen

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Category: The Collector Series (Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, Dubious Consent, Edgeplay, F/M, Knifeplay, Masks, No actual noncon, Non-Consensual Bondage, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rape/Non-con Elements, Vaginal Sex, the mask stays on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-15 05:00:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16056044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Summary: You knew doing side jobs for The Collector would end badly, but you didn't expect it to end quite like this. <3ArtisticWizard asked: Me @ that Collector fic 0.0A/N: Day 3 of Kinktober for knifeplay and edge play. See tags for warnings.





	Stuffed, Stitched and Stolen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArtisticWizard](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ArtisticWizard).



Like the spider, he spins his webs; catching everything too inept to evade the sticky strings of his traps. Like a spoiled hound, he only takes the choicest cuts and tosses the rest. The sinewy, chewy vittles get left behind to rot and bloat. Those sweetmeats are either molded or hung in ornament; a warning to others because their fear excites him. You know all this because you watch the news on occasion and since his arrival, it’s all anyone gossips about.

He had too many cuts this time - too laden with goods to do them all himself, but he worked too hard to just let them spoil. 

That would be wasteful after all, and The Collector was not a careless creature.

The Collector - that’s what the news labeled him, and that’s what he was. A collector of flesh and peoples. 

It still seemed odd that someone like him would be so unmethodical as to overindulge when he had little room left for such… indulgences. That building on the outskirts of the city, far away from the chaos and attention of do-gooders, must have been cramped by now. The only reason you know about it is that he’s had you deliver a job to the address and then left a disgusting warning outside your back door the next day. It was proof enough what would happen should you go running your mouth.

One of these days something big was going to fly into his sticky, razor-web and tear it asunder, but until then… every so often, usually when you finally got over the terror of his last visit, you’d open the shop back up, and thus… he’d show up. 

Once you stopped checking the windows and mirrors every time you passed them by, The Collector would come with a collectible. 

On a calm, self-care kind of evening, while you’re locking up for the day - dressed in a floor-length silk robe and loose clothing underneath - a noise catches your attention. Your hands are still damp and pruned from the rock soap and antiseptics when you turn around, listening. 

You find him standing there - standing there in the same place you’d stood a few seconds ago.

The retractable lanyard key in your hand, hung around your neck slips from your fingers, retreating fast enough that it knicks your chin and causes you to hitch in surprise. The added pain in your gasp makes the sound just that much more inviting for him. 

Last time he showed up, you’d been coming down from your upstairs apartment to make sure the solution prepared the night prior hadn’t gunked up... and there he’d been, sitting on another trunk with his masked visage cocked to the side - insect eyes staring - with that chrome-gloss knife catching in the darkness. 

He’s standing shoulder width apart this time, nudging the tip of his boot into the old metal trunk trim. It doesn’t rattle which is telling enough as to the state of what’s inside. Death. Sweet decay. Something moldable.

Already your chest is rising and falling; heart palpitating. There’s a silent agreement between the two of you, but he’s unpredictable… and untrustworthy.

The peek of his lips beyond the mask remain lax; parted and puffy-wet, but those eyes say there’s a sense of satisfaction he gets by startling you, even if its in a generalized sense. It does not escape your notice that the light in his eyes shifts to your chest… same as they’d done last time. This time, however, they fall lower. His eyes flash over the gold-threaded sash cinching the robe around your waist. Glowing green insect eyes trace the width of your hips and the light pool of long, velvety material down around your bare feet. 

The feeling he gives you is utterly unsettling. 

“... this is part of it isn’t it?” you mention just above a whisper, “Catching me off guard like this each time? You’ve got the business number. I gave it to you the previous two times.” It comes out condescending and rude, maybe a bit biting but you’re scared, and it shows, and he’s never reacted to your curt words before. 

He doesn’t talk, so mentioning that he just calls the landline like a regular customer is merely a way to fill the void, making up for the silence he brings with him. As if in answer, his head twitches to the opposite side. Those hidden eyes reflect iridescent jade in the low after-hours lighting once again, reminding you of the orb weaver spinning its web under the moonlight. 

His boot rears back and softly taps the trunk once more in place of a response. 

You know the drill by now. 

Those gloved hands that are hanging outward at his thighs twitch, curling just shy of a fist before the knife he so loves is brought out from a back pocket; the motion as smooth as silk. 

Sharp edges glitter, drawing your nervous gaze and like always, the action is just as erotic as it is terrifying. He’s recently added a few new wet-grinded grooves to the blade. Before long, it’ll resemble a crude animal jaw. The symbolism of the idea stimulates your temporal lobes. 

“Okay,” you nod, more complacent and soft-voiced thanks to the unsheathed blade, “... just let me draw the blinds and turn the security cameras off.”

His carapace mask turns, eyes shining up at the camera watching the lobby. You follow his gaze upwards. 

There’s no blinking red light - no light at all to prove it’s on, which just means he’s already disabled the monitoring equipment. Not having the forethought before on several occasions had been a mistake on his part… and on yours. When you found your tapes unraveled and burned in the incinerator after his last visit, the message was clear. 

“Right. Of course, you already took care of them.” 

Why assume otherwise?

The mask kept his face from view, but he wouldn’t want proof he’d been here… could be that it had less to do with being caught and more about his pride. The Collector was a jack of all trades and a master of many and having evidence that he needed ‘help’ - your help more precisely - didn’t fit the lonely spider amidst its web.

Still, he’s here, and you have work to do, and the coffee pot is still hot enough to chug a cup before sitting down with whatever ghastly husk he’s brought in this time. 

While your back’s to him, you tighten the blinds, pull in the thick velvet drapery and double check the quiet, outside street for anything suspicious. Not a car in sight… not a single soul out on a late night stroll. You’ve never felt so vulnerable. 

But it’s good, you think, feeling nerves twist your stomach raw like an acid bath mixed with rubbing salts. 

“If you’ll just follow me, I’ll take a look at-“ you suck in your remaining words at the swift latex fingers that snatch up your wrist as you pass by his side. His turns his head down; lips parted, almost soft-like. 

Chills race up your spine as his eyes trail your face. It is an involuntary response when you blush under his attentive gaze.

Beneath the dark, protective robe, your heart pounds. 

His fingers curl and coil and jerk you closer. 

A breath gushes out your throat - a gasp against his carapace-like mask. He’s half a foot taller at least… tall enough you have to lift your browline and bend your neck to look at the wide-wandering eyes that scour your face.

You’ve scrubbed off the makeup from today. The professional bun has long been unraveled, leaving curls to spill around your cheeks and shoulders. Natural features would turn a man off… especially someone as particular as The Collector, who has only seen you coiffed and pristine before tonight. There’s no reason for him to find you as fascinating as his collectibles but he stares in possessed curiosity as you lean away; feeling smothered. 

Claustrophobia begins to set in as you take a step back only for him to close that distance and more. Two more quick, heart-stopping steps backward, and he’s pressed against the whole front of your body; the wall of an ascending staircase at your back. The waist-high wooden trim digs into the top of your rear, and a picture of framed moose anatomy knocks the side of your head. 

Proving your nervous fear well founded, The Collector rips the picture frame off the wall and throws it across the floor behind him. Glass shatters and your throat spasms in a stifled scream. It’s shocking. Sudden. Your brain stutters, trying to decide if it’s better for you to remain unmoving against a stronger predator or run like wild prey.

You pant; weighing your options and come up blank. 

Against the loose black cotton overlaying a broad, hard abdomen, your chest heaves. The breath leaking from his lips smells like wet moss and formaldehyde; the mixture of which reminds you of a spider liquefying its prey. 

“... what are you-“ you suck down another scream as the knife skates the wooden wall trim against your hip - the sound like a soft growl all its own - and hold your breath. Sharp steel presses beneath your throat, and just like that, running is no longer an option.

The blade shaves the fine hairs beneath your chin, but it’s the way his eyes flatten down your throat, that forces the return of that one, frightening wet dream you’d had of him... 

He’s tracing your thigh with your own scalpel, cutting tight snaps of fabric away… revealing what’s beneath… baring you to his eyes before taking you on the examination table; smooth sounds of snarling pleasure while you grasp the metal edges and breathe through slices of fleshy stabbings. Dead-eyed animals staring… watching… taunting… as he backhands your ass and carves love letters down your spine...

The Collector sees the distance is your eyes and twists the cocoon of his mask to the side, drawing ever closer in his insect curiosity - bland curiosity… arousal…

There’s a stiffness pressing through the silk drapery of your robe where your navel dents towards your groin. It’s clearly an erection - it’s obscenely apparent. 

The Collector leans further in until your nose is scrunched up against the hard edge of his mask and then… he licks his lips and breathes more chemical fodder in your face before fisting your throat in latex black; knife so close to cutting it brings a layer of fear-sweat to your skin. 

“-please,” you say between tight lips and closed teeth, “... we had a-,” a swallow as his fist tightens, “... an agreement.”

The Collector sways his head to and fro, bobbing as his eyes scan your miserable features and panicked eyes. He watches and holds you against the wall and lets his erection press harder. His eyes nearly glow with disinterest. But it’s not you where his interest lacks, merely the words you’ve spoken to him before or any so-called deals you thought had been made. To him, those arrangements are forfeit. 

Truth be told. He never agreed to anything… which is why you’re less surprised by the events that unfold. 

It is not the way he snatches up your scream with his gloved-hand, nor is it the edge of the knife shoved beside your carotid artery… and it is not the way he drags you down the stairs to your workshop with the cloying smell of embalming chemicals and acid-based compounds. You’re not surprised when he throws you upon the pristinely cleaned steel examination table, nor the snap of his eyes on your bare legs when the robe parts and folds around the tops of your thighs in the short scuffle.

None of his violence is in any way surprising…

… what shocks you is the furious, inelegant way he turns his need for violence into a need for sexualized violence. 

It’s not entirely unwanted when he pins you down by his knife at your throat and tugs the sash loose on your robe, parting the edges while looking between the uncovered fabric and your dilated pupils.

“... fucking pig,” you whisper ineptly, swallowing under the sharp knife as he pauses; lips parted. 

His eyes openly study your twisted grimace while rubbing a palm over your twitching stomach like he’s searching for the softest parts of you. He finds something wet and wanting and shameful further down beneath silk shorts. The latex black hides the feel of your wetness when he spreads his fingers between your lower lips, but the noisy sound of slickness is unmistakable.

A breathy moan slips out despite your closed lips. The blade twirls between artful rubber digits. He lays it flat over your lips. The point taps your upturned nose, and even from the cross-eyed view, you can see your frantic exhales fogging the reflective metal. 

It’s a physical demand. ‘Stay quiet, or events that usually unfold on this very table will be repeated’… only with you as the carcass. He nods in appreciation when you cease your squirming. 

You lower your lashes as he sweeps his gaze and that carapace-mask back down between your thighs. The vast, iridescent-green eyes flash for a moment before they carry humanity yet again, but the way he touches you is less than human.

Distant caresses pull and fondle your wet folds beneath the silken shorts. A finger slips inside your cunt, but retreats no sooner than it entered, leaving you poised on the edge of something. Slippery, black-latex fingers swirl your clit - teasing and exploratory - before two digits spear through your tight muscles to the very hilt, taking your breath away.

You inhale raggedly through your nostrils, parting your lips in a silent groan while wetting the blade with the tip of your tongue. It tastes like nothing… maybe the barest hint of mineral oil but no more than a phantom flavor and it’s a clean taste; a sterile knife meant for opening the living without introducing death or disease… or perhaps he just enjoys cutting with virgin-like steel.

He licks his lips until the lower plush that hangs on the mouth opening in his mask glimmers pink. It’s shiny and gross and lewd, but you lick the blade again and swallow the made-up flavor and what it could mean. The Collector licks his teeth, traces a deep red tongue over his lower lip again and hunches over your prone form.

His insectoid eyes trace you from cunt to navel, from navel to breast and breast to shining eyes as he curls his fingers inside you. 

He’s looking for something. 

The touch is not confident… but it has a purpose. It is sloppy, but every poke and twisted angle is studied. You wince once, and he changes his tactics. One thrust brings nothing but a puff of breath and then… he finds something tender and engorged. 

You stiffen at the thrilling twitch it sends up your belly, part your lips further against the blade and run your tongue over the surface as it trails down your lips, off your chin and down against your sternum. 

The Collector watches you with a never-ending swing to his head; surveying the way your face contorts with each prodding thrust against the knot within your cunt. Where there had been a chilling heat, there is now a crackling fire. He’s stroking damp pleasure into places very few men have given more than a passing interest. A hidden bundle of nerves that brings untested joy. It should be wrong. All of it should fill you with rotting hatred, but it doesn’t.

The Collector fingers you with two confident digits and nudges the folds of your robe away from your heaving chest.

The blade twirls - too fast to see more than a glittering blur - before it skims your throat and hooks under your sheer little sleep shirt. Blood dribbles down the edge of your neck, dripping to the pristinely washed down table as he slices through silk-like thin flesh.

The crisp, temperature-controlled air of the basement workshop lays siege to your exposed breasts; nipples straining on the soft globes of fat that catch his glowing eyes. Every delve of his fingers echoes with the gentle squeaking squelch of wet rubber.

Finally, you move, unable to help yourself. You spread your arms out, fingers stretching before they meet the edges of the table. 

Whimpers tumble free as the knife sweeps a nipple back and forth - fanning the tight nerve - as you grip the metal edges. His fingers fuck your harder, moving your lower body over layers of silk atop steel like a struggling butterfly caught in silk webbing. You gasp, turn your head to the side to escape his trapping gaze and close your eyes to the sight of shiny floors and wooden drawers littered with glass eyes, fine-toothed combs and colored stains… 

“... my,” you were going to beg him not to carelessly drag the knife down your breasts, fearful of what your own flesh will look like open and weeping, but your lower abdomen clenches. Pleasure swims and swirls between your hip bones, nestling at the bottom of your spine and with a parted, uneven smile, you tremble… on the brink.

He stops the second before the poison floods your bloodstream - the last moment before pleasure wraps you up. 

The Collector pauses with long, black-latex fingers buried within. 

When you gasp and thrust your hips down - allowing the blade to knick your nipple in the process - he slips his fingers away. Your muscles hug and suck to keep him inside, but he breathes softly above you and lays his wet hand on your stomach, just above the askew hem of your silky shorts.

“... I’m not going to beg,” you whisper, in response to his unblinking eyes that wait and watch. Soft, unprotected lips part, but words don’t spill… not that you had expected him to talk. 

When he steps back and walks around the end of the table to where your feet hang off the edge, you think he’s going to fuck you - rape you in reality - but he doesn’t. 

Your shorts are removed and folded, laid over on a tower of books on your desk. The robe beneath your rear end makes it easy for him to drag you down to the end of the table, open your knees and expose your soaked cunt to his cold, flashing greens. The knife trails your bare hip bone and runs over your mons before outlining your vulva. The cold, sharp touch of it is both frightening and arousing. The thought of being mutilated is appalling, but the fear has its own chemical release that’s too intense to not lend itself to the fire in your belly.

The Collector feathers his blade down your outer lips, carefully nudges the ultra delicate inner folds open and then… with a hard gloved fist in the internal fat of your thigh, you’re spread open, and his tongue is stretched to the max, flicking wet strokes over your pronounced clit.

On the table - over your silky robe - you jolt and moan and lift your free leg up, bracing a heel on the edge of the table and opening yourself up further for him. 

He eats you, one lick at a time until you’re trembling. 

Your fingers sweat over the metal edges of the table. Each lick makes your grip shift. You're forced to adjust your hold until you're rubbing and scratching the sides, arching your spine into the dripping, poisonous fangs of the spider. As before, he pulls away before you can ruin yourself… before he can destroy you…

“No…” you gasp, biting your tongue to stop the sweet words of ‘please’ and ‘don’t stop’ that he may or may not want from you. 

A minute passes. The blade moves up your navel, denting the dip until you’re holding your breath; afraid to breathe. Another minute turns into two and - with The Collector's blade now hooked under a heaving breast - his tongue returns. Just as before, he lays his wet muscle in flicks; licking your clit until a moist, spit-drenched swirl of firm tissue sends you back to the edge of oblivion. 

You want to be infected. The spider can have you at this point. You’re already tangled in his sticky web, and when The Collector leaves you on the cusp only to spit a long, hanging glob of saliva over your cunt so he can thumb you in a pool of slime, your shame has vanished.

The blade cuts into your breast until blood oozes down your sternum, pooling in your throat. You roll your hips into his thumb, whisper for him to keep going…

“... yes, whatever you want… just,” your eyes roll back as the pleasure swells once more, “... fuck me, don’t stop.”

He stops…

You've become no more than a thing now - an object filled with need and nothing more. You’re a sack of meat that needs sensation, and so, you twist over on the table. The Collector's knife slashes you deep across the underside of your chest, eating into the jut of your rib but it’s the cinching robe that makes you snarl. The way it twists around your waist, trapping you in an awkward position with your chest shoved down on the cold metal surface but your hips slanted; ass exposed and turned upward. 

“Fuck me,” you demand; beg.

You jerk your hips, working against the robe and it’s binding tightness until you can barely breathe. The Collector might be a spider wearing a man’s skin, but the cock you’d felt earlier is now pressed against your left ass cheek, and the knife is cutting you free from your self-induced bondage. Your heart leaps, as he throws you flat on the examination table. 

The bone of your chin bashes the steel, but his rubber fingers bump your backside as he undoes his pants with quick, bruising jerk of his knuckles. The knife taps the table - skates the surface with a loud, ugly scream that sends goosebumps within your sweaty dermis - but it’s his bare, weighty cock that frightens you.

In less than two seconds, which is too little time to process what you’ve willingly agreed to, The Collector is halfway inside you. The stretch is like acid burns… neverending. 

He rams himself through muscles that refuse to loosen. 

He fucks you until your cervix is tapped and your cunt is stretched in all directions. That bundle of nerves inside suffers beneath his cock, but you palm the metal table, lock your elbows and take as much as he can physically stuff you with. 

It’s the stinger shoved between your thorax, to the connective tissue between - it’s the fangs clutching prey… injecting a meal full of hot poison… melting you from the inside out...

You squeal like an animal at a slaughterhouse, taking rough, untrained thrusts of hot cock through overly teased nerve endings and weak, needful flesh. Each piston of fleshy stabs brings you closer… and further towards paralysis. 

Weakened, but alive. 

The Collector grunts - the first real sound you’ve heard him make - and fucks you until your thighs bruise on the edge of the table. 

Sweat glues you to the metal surface. 

Pleasure compounds in your pelvis despite the way your hips sing against the unforgiving table and then… right there, you howl like a starved animal and sink your teeth into your lip. Blood splatters over your tongue and with a mouthful of spit and crimson, you cum…

The feeling is like melting; dying… succumbing to paralysis and then being defibrillated into screaming rebirth. 

You fall to your elbows, hide your face in sweaty hands and throw a knee up on the table as your leg dangles while The Collector grunts and fucks and grabs twin handfuls of your ass; sheathing a cock too big for you inside a passage too small for him. He fucks you through the best and worst of it until you’re sniffling in your palms and squirming as hot lava ejaculates in squirts and leaks… dribbling down your inner leg and speckling the clean floor.

He cums, uttering a throaty, muffled grunt and choking sound that leaves your cheeks blazing with heat. The body warmed metal table grips your tacky chin and cheek as you deflate, flopping sweatily down until his cock slips away, leaving more warm globs of cum to pulse out of your quivering cunt in fat dollops. 

That… isn’t good, you think in a dull haze.

It becomes quite clear why The Collector cared little about where he came or didn’t and why you shouldn’t care either. 

More pressing matters arrive when your lashes flutter open and an unknowable amount of time has passed between when you were fucked over your examination table and now… with The Collector snapping open the latches on his trunk - the one he’d hauled down the stairs. 

You blink away fuzzy vision, sit up on weak arms and watch him kneel, train his carapace-mask on you with green, bright orbs shining. The empty, blood-dried abyss of his trunk - the meaning behind its vacancy becoming clear - stares back at you.

A collector - a spider - is nothing without its collection of corpses… or it’s web of struggling prey and tonight your symbiotic relationship comes to a close.

You are merely prey and always have been.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have the time, please leave me a comment letting me know what worked for you or what didn't.
> 
> Thank you to FleshDust for betaing! <3
> 
>  
> 
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